Blackstone interrupted. "Why?"

"Why not?" I said. "I didn't have anything else. He said he knew Valentine."

Blackstone nodded.

"I walked in and there was Lola with her brains on the floor."

"And this guy Larry?" Blackstone said.

"Is Valentine," I said, "with a wig and contact lenses."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Well," Blackstone said, "you have accomplished much, but not enough. Do you know why Valentine masquerades as Victor?"

"Or vice versa," I said. "No, I don't."

Blackstone nodded.

"Two things I'd like to know," I said.

I drank some more of the Scotch and paused to admire it.

"One, why were you looking for Valentine, and two, why did you have Garcia watching Lola's house?"

"You seem to have been candid with me, Marlowe, up to a point. I'm looking for Valentine because he's been away and my daughter was worried. As for Lola Faithful, a woman of that name attempted to blackmail my daughter."

"About what?"

Blackstone shook his head.

"My daughter did not say, and I did not ask. I told my daughter that I would have Eddie speak to her. Eddie was away on business for a day or so, and when he returned he went to call on Lola only to find that she had been murdered."

Blackstone sampled his Scotch. It didn't seem to amaze him. He was used to it.

"You can understand my interest," he said.

I nodded.

"And your daughter?"

"I merely told her that the woman had died. I did not ask her anything."

We were quiet then, inhaling the Scotch, speculating about each other's intentions.

Finally I said, "How do you feel about Les Valentine, Mr. Blackstone?"

Blackstone held the glass of Scotch between his palms and looked into it and turned it slowly as if he wanted to admire it from all its angles. He took some air in slowly through his nose and let it out more slowly.

"He's a liar, a womanizer, a petty thief, an opportunist, a fool, an unsuccessful, probably compulsive, gambler, with no more spine than a dandelion. And my daughter loves him. As long as she does he is one of nature's noblemen to me. I will support him. I will intercede with those who bear him ill will. As long as he is married to my daughter, he is family."

"Even though he's a wrong Gee," I said.

"I am not much of a father, Mr. Marlowe. I have only my daughter. Her mother is long since gone. I indulge my daughter entirely, doubtless for selfish reasons. If she wishes to be married to a wrong Gee then he will become, so to speak, my wrong Gee."

"The wrong Gee is home," I said. "I delivered him myself."

"So you weren't telling me everything," Blackstone said.

"I never said I was."

"You're an interesting man, Marlowe. You wouldn't tell me that until you decided what I'd do with the information."

I didn't say anything.

"I can admire that, Marlowe. But do not make the mistake of confusing admiration with patience. I can eliminate you by nodding my head. And if it suits my purposes I will."

"Anybody can eliminate anybody, Mr. Blackstone. Once you realize that, it all gets into perspective."

"Where did you find him?"

"He was in his office," I lied. "I told him the cops would be after him any minute and he came with me."

"Where had he been?"

I shrugged. "He didn't say."

Blackstone put the glass to his lips, discovered it was empty, gestured, without looking, to Garcia. Eddie was there with the decanter and siphon. He looked at me. I shook my head. Eddie was back at the bar.

"Be careful, Marlowe. I'm not a playful man. So be very careful."

"Sure," I said. "You don't mind if I nibble on a turnip once in a while."

"Take him home, Eddie," Blackstone said. "When you get there give him back his gun."

"Lola's place would be fine," I said. "I didn't finish searching it."

Blackstone almost smiled.

"Take him where he wants to go, Eddie."

This time J.D. drove and Eddie rode in back with me. When we got to Kenmore Eddie reached in his side pocket and got my gun. J.D. stopped in front of Lola's house. It was silent. The street was dark. There was a high pale moon shining straight down on us. Garcia handed me my gun.

"You're a piece of work, Marlowe," he said. "I'll give you that."

I stowed the gun under my arm and got out of the car.

J.D. slid it into gear. I gave it the gunman's salute as they drove away.

23

It was 3:37 on my wristwatch, by moonlight, when I came out of Lola Faithful's house. I hadn't found anything, but on the other hand no one else had come and pointed a gun at me. It was too late to go home. I drove slowly. Hollywood was empty, the houses blank and aimless, all the colors altered by the moon glow. Only the neon lights along Sunset were still awake. They were always awake. Bright, hearty and fake, full of Hollywood promises. The days come and go. The neon endures.

I tried to figure out why I was here, alone, in the night on Sunset musing about neon. I had a client, but he sure as hell hadn't hired me to protect Valentine and look for whoever killed Lola. I hadn't slept in a while. I hadn't eaten in a while, and the rye for lunch and the Scotch for supper had worn off, leaving me feeling like something that belonged on Sunset Boulevard at 3:30 in the morning with no place to go. I had a beautiful wife at home in a comfortable bed, sleeping with one arm across her forehead and her mouth open only a fraction. If I got into bed with her now she would roll toward me and put one arm around me. What the hell difference did it make if she owned the bed? What the hell difference did it make if Les Valentine had killed Lola Faithful? Why not let the cops sort it out? At Western Ave I turned up toward Hollywood Boulevard. I didn't have any purpose. I wasn't going anywhere. What the hell difference did it make where I drove? I drove past Larry's building. Ten yards past it I slowed, and U-turned, and cruised back. Something had moved in the doorway of Larry's building. Probably just a bum staying out of the moonlight. Why not take a second look? It didn't matter.

I stopped in front of the building and got a flashlight out of the glove compartment and shined it in the doorway. Huddled back, trying to avoid the light, was Angel, the other wife. I switched off the flash and got out of the car, and when I did she dashed out of the doorway and headed up Western toward Hollywood. What I needed, a foot race. I took a deep inhale and headed out after her. I caught her after she had rounded the corner at Hollywood and was heading west. I might not have caught her at all but she broke one of the high heels on her shoes.

"It's me," I said, "Marlowe, the guy that drove off with Larry."

She was breathing very hard, and crying a little from fear, and didn't quite get who I was. I held her arms while she tried to pull away.

"Marlowe," I said, "your pal, your protector, your confidant. I won't hurt you."

She struggled less, then even less, and finally stood, her breath going in and out hard, her shoulders shaking, the tears running down her face. I still held her wrists, but she had stopped trying to hit me, and she wasn't trying to pull away.

"It's me," I said again, "Marlowe the moonlight knight. The shabby savior of ladies in doorways."

I was so tired I was dopey.

"Where's Larry?" she said.

I didn't answer. Instead I looked at the spotlight that was suddenly in my eyes from the car that had swung around the corner from Western and pulled up over the curb beside us.

"Hold it right there," a voice said. It was a cop voice, a little bored, a little tough. They came out of the spotlight on either side of me.

"Hands on the car, Jack," one of them said.

I put my hands on the roof of the car. One of them kicked my legs apart and patted me down. He took the gun from under my arm. Made me wonder why I carried it, people kept taking it away. Then the cop stepped back away from me.